Life Lines

A Shared Reading activity pack

to read wherever you are
Issue 62

For more Shared Reading, poems and texts,

email us at: coronavirus@thereader.org.uk
.
 " Ourself behind ourself, concealed -”

No. 670, Collected Poems by Emily Dickinson

(pub.Faber)

The Reader is a charity which usually brings people together to listen

to stories, extracts and poems in free, weekly Shared Reading
groups. In these Life Lines activity packs we hope to offer everyone
the same comfort, meaning and connection through great literature
that our reading groups provide – wherever it finds you.
Each Life Lines pack will bring you some of a story and a poem,
which you can read in your own time. Along with the reading, you’ll
find a selection of thoughts and feelings shared by other fellow
readers about the chosen pieces. We suggest that reading the poem
or the story out loud is a great way to fully immerse yourself in the
reading experience and discover your own personal connections with
the material. It may feel strange but it does make a difference, so do
please give it a try!

This week’s story is an extract from Chapter One of ‘The Fortnight in

September’ by R.C. Sherriff. Sherriff also wrote the WW1 play
‘Journey’s End’. Here we are introduced to Mrs. Stevens, waiting for
her family to return for their evening meal on the night before their
annual holiday. I don’t know about you but I am certainly looking
forward to going away, before September I hope! Here, Mrs. Stevens
is looking forward but also looking back at previous holiday
experiences. Feel free to make notes on your own thoughts and
feelings as you go , perhaps marking words or sentences that
particularly stand out to you…

2
 It was past five o’clock. In an hour the family would be
coming home. Mr. Stevens first (he always left sharp on this
particular evening), then Dick, and then Mary. By seven they
would all be home. Supposing it rained like this for the whole
fortnight? It had once: years ago. She had never forgotten the
evening they trailed up Corunna Road from the station, in the
twilight, through the endless rain – Dick with the bucket he
had scarcely used, and his little sodden dripping spade.
But it wouldn’t – couldn’t happen this time: she prayed for it
to clear up, and her prayer was answered. For now, as she
peered round the corner of the kitchen door, she was
conscious that it was lighter : the gravel path glistened : the
drips in the puddle outside were fewer and farther between –
and there – over the Embankment a tiny strip of blue sky was
rolling up the heavy clouds.
She returned to the kitchen with a burden lifted. It would be
all right now.
If you had asked Mrs. Stephens why she was so happy, she
would never have been able to explain : she would have
shrunk from saying “Because the others will be happy” – it
would have sounded noble, and silly. If you had asked her “ Do
you enjoy your holiday?” she would have flinched at a question
she had always feared, but which had never come. Nobody
ever asked her. The family assumed she did : and her friends
confined their question to “Have you had a nice time?” to
which she had replied “Lovely” for twenty years.
It had always been Bognor – ever since, on her honeymoon,
her pale eyes had first glimpsed the sea. Her father had had a
sister who lived on a farm, and scorning holidays himself, he
had sent the children there – year in, year out, until this
daughter had met her man and married him.
The sea had frightened Mrs. Stevens, and she had never
conquered her fear. It frightened her most when it was dead3
Continued …
calm. Something within her shuddered at the great smooth,
slimy surface, stretching into a nothingness that made her giddy.
For their honeymoon they had taken apartments with Mr. and
Mrs. Huggett in St. Matthew’s Road – called “Seaview,” because
from the lavatory window you could see the top of a lamp post
on the front.
They had answered an advertisement, and discovered Mr. and
Mrs. Huggett to be a strangely assorted couple. Mr. Huggett was
stout and jovial. He had been a valet to a man who left him some
money, and he had bought “Seaview”. He was easy going, slightly
patronising, and drank. Mrs. Huggett was thin, and anxious to
please to the point of embarrassment. They had a small servant
girl called Molly, who, being squat, bow-legged and red-haired,
had remained with them faithfully throughout the years.
But the house had been well done up and was scrupulously
clean. The Stevens had returned the following year, and they had
returned ever since, for twenty Septembers, wet and fine, hot
and cold.
Pause for Thought ….
I wonder what you make of Mrs. Stevens here and the way in
which she ‘looks forward’ to returning to Bognor? It feels quite
unusual now to go to the same place for ‘twenty’ years doesn’t
it? Although, with my family, I think we have done a similar
thing and I share Mrs. Stevens anxiety and hope that the
holiday will ‘be alright now’. Somehow, after the strange year
we have all been through, it feels as if there is even more
pressure than normal for a holiday to be a success, whatever
that means. I wonder what you think it means for Mrs. Stevens?
What do you think she feels about it? I’m struck by the line,
‘Nobody ever asked her’, that is whether she enjoys her holiday
- there’s something quietly and forlornly noticing in that
statement. I wonder what you feel about it?
4
 Continuing on ..
They had often talked of a change – of Brighton, Bexhill – even Lowestoft
- but Bognor always won in the end. If anything it held them stronger
every year. There were associations : sentiments. The inkstain on the sitting
-room tablecloth which Dick made as a little boy : the little ornament that
Mary had made by glueing seashells on a card; which had been presented
to Mrs. Huggett at the end of one holiday, and was always on the sitting-
room mantelpiece when they arrived each year. There was the stuffed
barbel on the landing which they called “Mr. Richards” because it was like a
milkman they once had in Dulwich – and many other little ties that would
be sadly broken.
But “Seaview,” silently, relentlessly had changed with the passing years.
M Huggett, orig nally
r. i blooming like a ripe plum – had begun to shrink. His
crimson cheeks began to fade – leaving a network of tiny purple veins. One
September the Stevens had noticed how thin his hands had become, how
the skin sagged round the knuckles, and how his hand had shaken as he
signed the receipt.
Each year Mrs. Huggett had come one night into the Stevens’ sitting
room, when the children had gone to bed, and told her lodgers in an
anxious undertone with frequent glances at the door, what a terrible
winter Mr. Huggett had had – on his back on and off all the time, with
bronchitis and other, more mysterious troubles which Mrs. Huggett could
never properly explain.
Each year the recital had grown longer and more awesome, till at Easter
one year the Stevens had received a black-edged letter. It came from Mrs.
Huggett to tell them that on the previous Tuesday night, at ten o’clock, her
husband had passed away.
The following September they found Mrs. Huggett in black. She told
them how wild it had been on the night that her husband died : how the
sea had roared, how crumbs of snow had circled in the road; and although
she described her husband’s death as a happy release, she had worn
mourning ever since.
Mr. Huggett had never been much use in the house towards the end. He
had to give up his one definite job (the changing of the electric light bulbs)
some years before, because looking up made him giddy. But that did not
alter the fact that their landlady’s partner had gone : that through the long
winter she was alone.
The Stevens had not definitely noticed anything amiss with “Seaview” in
the years that followed. Mrs. Huggett remained as flustered, as tremblingly
anxious to please as ever. Molly seemed on the go all day – and yet – there
was just something different : some little thing each year. A few years back
the bath plug had broken from its chain : it had never
5
 Continued
been recaptured, and lay each year in freedom at the bottom of the bath. Year by
year the sheets grew more cottony and frail : and Mr. Stevens, happening one
night to have a sharp toe nail, slit his top sheet down the centre, and enlarged it
accidentally with his foot each night as he got into bed.
The Stevens never complained or pointed out these things. Their years of
association with “Seaview” – their fear of harassing Mrs. Huggett – and perhaps a
little pity for her – kept them silent. After all they were out all day.
Pause for Thought...
I wonder what you make of this “Seaview” that has no real view of the
sea? And of the couple that run it? What do we make of Mrs.
Huggett’s taste for the dramatic? And Mr. Huggets’ rosy cheeks and
shaking hands?
If you have been to a favourite holiday place repeatedly, I wonder
what your version of Dick’s ‘inkstain on the sitting room tablecloth’ or
Mary’s glued ‘seashells on a card’ might be? These things that are
‘associations : sentiments’, is that how they feel to you?
When I think of going to Wales, where I’ve been going since I was a
child and taken my own family to, it is strange that going to the same
place somehow marks change more than going somewhere new. Like
that line, ‘and yet – there was just something different : some little
thing each year’ – has it been like that for you? Sometimes all the
little things can ambush you all at once, a bit like measuring a child
and seeing that he/she has grown two inches and can reflect back
changes in ourselves, which might be less visible. What do you make
of the Stevens’ silence over the increasing wear and tear of the place
– is it just perhaps pity and fear? Or is their something that links back
to those ‘many other little ties that would be sadly broken’ at the end
of the first paragraph? I wonder if a modern family would behave in
the same way?
I wonder how it might feel for Mrs. Stevens to return to the same
place where she had her honeymoon? Is it a continuity too far?
Let’s read on ….

But to Mrs. Stevens, “Seaview” was only the background of a

fortnight in each year which troubled and disturbed her. She hated
herself for not enjoying it as others did. It made her unhappy to
pretend she was enjoying herself, because it was a sham : somehow
dishonest. Dick, round about fourteen – digging in the sand – his
sunburnt legs bare to his tucked up shorts – would run to her
suddenly with “Isn’t it lovely, Mum!” and she would say “Lovely”
and smile, and hate herself for the lie. 6
 Only the honeymoon had been lovely : the coming of the children
had made the fortnight a burden – sometimes a nightmare. At
home the children were hers : they loved her : came to her in
everything. At Bognor, somehow they drew away from her –
became different. If she paddled, they laughed at her : saying she
looked so funny. They never laughed at her at home.
When she was younger she had tried to play cricket with them
on the sands, but she had no eye for a bouncing ball, and could not
stoop quickly to stop it. They would laugh – and soon she would go
and hide in a deck chair behind a magazine – while the hot sun
brought on her headache.
But the journey was worst of all; for although the burden should
have grown lighter as the children grew up – she had never
conquered her dread of Clapham Junction, where they always had
to change.
The rumble of porter’s trucks : the wrong platform : the shrieking
trains : the losing of her husband once, when he came out of the
wrong hole after getting the tickets – Hell, to Mrs. Stevens would be
a white hot Clapham Junction with devils in peaked caps.
Final thoughts …
What do you make of Mrs. Stevens here? How might it feel to you
to pretend you are enjoying something for twenty years? It’s
particularly hard to admit that about holidays somehow – I think it
took me a long time to shake off memories of exhausting holidays
with the children and begin to enjoy them when they were older.
Stressful past experiences can really embed themselves can’t they?
What do you make of the children drawing away from Mrs. Stevens
on holiday, becoming ‘different’? Is it her who has changed or them
or is it something about being in a different place and context? I
wonder if we have a holiday self that comes out or maybe doesn’t
in Mrs. Stevens’ case? She feels a bit lost doesn’t she? I certainly
share her dread of Clapham Junction, and the sea sometimes -these
huge places that can leave us feeling very small and fearful. I really
recommend reading this whole novel if you like it so far.
7
Time for a poem ….

We’ll pick up with another story again in our next issue, but now a
pause for some poetry. Poetry isn’t always easy for everyone to get
going with. In our Shared Reading groups we read a poem out loud a
few times, to give ourselves a bit of time to hear it aloud. Give this a
go yourself and see if it helps you to feel comfortable with the words,
even if you’re still not sure what it’s all about!

We aren’t looking to find an answer here, or what the person writing it

might have meant when they wrote it. We’re just looking to see if any
feelings or ideas come up when we read it – and often we find that
the more time you allow yourself to simply be with the poem, the
more thoughts and feelings will come through.

One of the keys is to enjoy yourself: take your time, read it out loud,
have a think about any bits you like, or that puzzle you, then… have
another read!

This week's Featured Poem is ‘One need not be a chamber to be

haunted’ by Emily Dickinson (No.670 of her Collected Works, Faber).
Somehow, all the things that Mrs. Stevens is afraid of, her worries
and panics about external things, made me think of this poem’s
challenge to look inside ourselves …..
8
No.670 by Emily Dickinson
One need not be a Chamber – to be Haunted –
One need not be a House –
The Brain has Corridors – surpassing
Material Place –

Far safer, of a Midnight Meeting

External Ghost
Than its interior confronting –
That Cooler Host.

Far safer, through an Abbey gallop,

The Stones a’chase –
Than Unarmed, one’s a’self encounter –
In lonesome Place –

Ourself behind ourself, concealed –

Should startle most –
Assassin hid in our Apartment
Be Horror’s least.

The Body – borrows a Revolver –

He bolts the Door –
O’erlooking a superior spectre –
Or More –

I imagine this poem might terrify Mrs. Stevens! The ‘House’ of

the first verse made me think of ‘Seaview’ in a more sinister
light of course. And I love that turn to the inside with the idea
of the brain having its own ‘corridors’. Can you imagine
wondering around the passageways of your own brain?

9
 Continued
I’m very struck by the very physical way the inside of our
minds is described here, and that this surpasses ‘Material
Place’. It feels very opposite to how Mrs. Stevens and the
Huggett’s might view themselves doesn’t it?
I wonder if you have felt that sense of meeting yourself
‘unarmed …. In lonesome place?’ It makes me think of Mrs.
Stevens looking at the sea and those moments when you just
catch a sense of ‘Ourself behind ourself, concealed’ and it can
be rather alarming and/or surprising. Maybe it’s like Mrs.
Stevens knowing or allowing herself to admit to herself that
for her, going on holiday is an experience ‘which troubled and
disturbed her’, but never letting anyone else know, not even
her family?
It can help to read this poem aloud or silently a couple of
times just to get more of a sense of it – what does it make you
feel as you read it? I wonder what associations it has for you,
and any things that jump out at you particularly?

10
We’ve left this page blank for you to make notes, draw a picture,
have a go at writing yourself or jot down something you’d like to tell
us…

11